


Fire Breather

by SummoningMutations



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: Depression, Little plot, M/M, Recreational marijuana use - Freeform, Vignettes, barely coherent most of the time, underage smoke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25158493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummoningMutations/pseuds/SummoningMutations
Summary: Kissing him felt like fire.Too bad his skin was covered in gasoline.
Relationships: Sal Fisher/Larry Johnson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	1. Bird Shit

  
If there is one thing that Larry Johnson is certain, it's that he definitely, absolutely, positively washed that fucking car. The birds are out to get him. Somehow, someway, the birds--as a unit--decided to take a giant dump in seemingly the same places they did three days ago. Larry looks between the shit-spotted car and his mother's disappointed face with a skeptical eye, wondering how the hell his luck got this bad. Wondering if this was some type of extensive prank pulled by his friends. His eyebrows are scrunched together as he continues to move his gaze between the car and Mom. She starts tapping her foot. Her eyebrow is twitching. Shit. He'd have to say something soon.   
  
Larry clears his throat, shoulders relaxing as he puts his hand on his hips. "I know you asked me to wash the car--"   
  
"But?" Mom snaps, crossing her arms. She's got this look on her face, and he knows that it's one of those looks. The look that says, "I know that there's a very small probability that I'm going to believe you. This excuse better be good. I'm already calculating how long you will be grounded."   
  
" _And_ ," Larry stresses, "I did wash the car! I cleaned it all afternoon Saturday! You can ask Sal. He helped!" Larry flails his arms towards the entrance to Addison Apartments, hoping that maybe he can lure her out of the driveway.   
  
She purses her lips and shakes her head, looking away from Larry.   
  
"Larry," she starts, voice soft. Oh, God. He hates that voice. It means she isn't going to yell at him. She isn't going to ground him. She's going to express her disappointment. And that's one thing that Larry can't stand. He doesn't want her to be disappointed in him. "I asked you to do one thing this weekend. I asked that if you used the car, you just wash her. Is that so much to ask?" Bingo. Right in Larry's heart.  
  
He hangs his head. He knows he fucking washed that car, but there's no way Mom is ever going to believe him. He might as well accept defeat now. Maybe his punishment won't be so severe. "I'm sorry, Mom... I'll try to do better next time." Her lips quirk up into a small smile. She then looks up at the sky, letting out a long breath of air. That means that she's trying to decide on a punishment. She hums, and Larry's head perks up. That hum means that the punishment wasn't going to be as bad as Larry thought it was going to be. But then... Larry slumps, watching as she lifts a hand to her chin. That means there's a catch.   
  
"If you get it cleaned tonight..." she started, and Larry holds his breath. What's the punchline, the incentive. "If you get it clean tonight, you're still allowed to go to the speedway with Sal this weekend."   
Larry lets out a breath of relief. Oh, thank God. He could totally get this car cleaned tonight. He looks at his mother, and she looks back at him expectantly. He pushes out his chest, chin tilted upwards, and says, "I'm going to take it to the car wash right now, and it's going to be the shiniest car on the street. Don't even worry about it, Ma."   
  
His mother chuckles, shaking her head, and Larry knows that he's won this war. He gets the keys from the gas tank, and he hugs his mom goodbye. Giving her a reassuring smile, he says, "I'm sorry I let you down. I'll, uh, try not to let it happen again."   
  
She smiles, and he takes that as his cue to pull away, turning around and opening the door to the car and getting in. He could hear his mother's voice outside of his door, muffled by the glass window. He looks up, and he reads her lips.   
  
"Why do you smell like weed?"   
  
Larry laughs and points to his ears, shaking his head. "Gotta go!" He yells. Very loudly. He starts the car and pulls out of the driveway before his mom can stop him. It isn't until five minutes later that he breathes a sigh of relief. That was close. His mother almost found out he was smoking pot. That would've been bad.   
  
He gets a couple of blocks away from the apartment before his phone starts to ring. He looks down at the caller ID and notices that it's Sal. He smiles to himself. Ah, Sally Face... the masked, blue-haired boy that moved into the apartment building all those years ago. What a legend. He hits the answer button with his thumb.  
  
"HeeeEEeey, Sally Face, what's good?"   
  
"Hi, Larry Face. Your mom just called me to tell me that you smell like pot and that you're going to the car wash to wash the car." Larry lets out a huff of laughter at his friend's conflicted tone.  
  
"You sound confused," Larry prompts.  
  
"Not about the pot," Sal quips.  
  
"Obviously."   
  
"Didn't we wash the car three days ago?"  
  
"Yeah, we sure as hell did." Larry leans back into his seat, pressing the phone harder against his ear.  
  
"So..." Sal lets out a little cough, and Larry can practically see him bobbing his head, a weird tic that he doesn't remember Sal without. Larry hums, waiting for his friends to continue. "Alright, so why are you going to wash the car again?"   
  
"Birds shit on it again. I knew Mom wouldn't believe that, so I just gotta go wash it again. Gotta pick your battles man."   
  
"I guess that's understandable."   
  
"Well, listen," Larry starts as he pulls into the car wash. "I'm going to spend the next thirty minutes cleaning this beast of a car. You should look up some tips to keep birds from shitting on my car. And then when I get back home, we can play Minecraft or something."   
  
Sal hums, considering, and Larry can hear the sound of a pencil being tapped against his silicone mask. After a moment, he says, "Yeah, that sounds alright to me. See you in a couple?"   
  
Larry's lips pull back into a Cheshire grin. "You bet. See you, Sal."   
  
" _Bye_ , Larry."   
  
He hangs up the phone, looks out of his windshield, and is reminded of the shituation going on on the hood of his car. Damn, he really hopes Sal finds a way to stop _birds from shitting on his car all the fucking time, damn._

When he got home exactly thirty minutes later, he found that his mom was not in their Apartment. Larry doesn't think anything of it. She's probably just upstairs in Henry and Sal's place, or maybe she's cleaning up the mess that is the Lobby's public bathroom. He sends Sal a quick text while he sets up some music and the game they're going to play. Not too much longer later, and Sal is sitting in the beanbag in front of his bed, controller in hand. Larry is laying on his stomach in front of the TV, violently smashing the buttons on his controller as a Creeper explodes and destroys his beautiful garden, killing Larry in the process.   
  
" _Fuck_!"  
  
Sal looks down at him, his eyes bright behind the mask, and Larry is struck with curiosity. "That sucks, dude," Sal says, turning his eyes back to the screen.   
  
"I had _diamonds_."   
  
"Better respawn and go get them."   
  
Larry huffs, annoyed, and simply rage quits the game instead, and rolls onto his back. Sal looks over at him again, and this time Larry can see his eyebrows pinch together. He's struck again by that aching sense of curiosity. He just wanted to... know.   
  
"You're not playing anymore?" Sal asks.  
  
"Dude, we've been playing for an hour and a half. I need a mental break -- or something." He brings a hand up to dry wash his face. He covers his eyes in the crook of his elbows, leaving him in darkness as he tries to unwind from being murdered by a fucking creeper of all things. Sal nods quietly, pressing a couple buttons on the controller and shutting down the game. He sets his controller to the side and leans forward in the beanbag. Sal stretches out a leg and kicks Larry in his side.   
  
"Hey, Larry, you ever hear from Ash about this weekend?"   
  
"Yeah, she said she's down."   
  
"Nice."   
  
There's a small pause, and Larry takes this opportunity to change the subject. "Did you ever listen to that new single by Warm Death?" Larry is already getting up and flipping through his iPod before Sal can answer.  
  
Sal answers anyways. "No, I don't think I have."   
  
"Dude, it's one of the rawest pieces of music I have ever listened to. The drums--And the electric guitar solo -- Man, you have got to listen to this." Larry presses play on the song, and his room is instantly filled with a booming base and a man's scratchy screaming. Larry raises his hand into the fist, pumping it into the air as he bangs his head back and forth. The guitar riffs fill his senses, and he lets loose, flinging his whole upper body into his headbanging. His hair is flinging wildly around him, and he notices out of the corner of his eye that Sal, too, is headbanging. The classic devil horns held high in the air above his head. Larry smiles widely, a laugh breaking free from his chest as the bass shakes his core.   
  
They continue on like that for the remainder of the song. Sal breaking out into a spontaneous invisible guitar solo, making Larry gasp for breath, his laughter getting muffled by the skittering drum beats.   
  
And when the song ends, they both fall down on Larry's bed, laughing and panting. The next song plays, but it's quieter. Easier to ignore as the two boys continue to cackle and clutch at their stomachs.   
  
Soon the laughter dies down, too, and Larry looks to his right. Sal looks to his left.   
  
And all Larry can think about is:  
_  
How can I get the birds to not shit on my car?_


	2. Blue Paper Hearts

Larry knew History class was boring, but Jesus Christ, _this_ is a little excessive. He feels like he wants to claw at his eyes and hope they fall out of his head. Nothing's even happening! He's just sitting at his desk, staring at a stain on the wall... He hasn't blinked in a while. The stain starts moving, dancing around in the small area that his eyes have latched onto. He blinks.

A paper ball lands on his desk, so he stares at that instead. It's a little one, not any bigger than a quarter. It's also blue which is his favorite color. Probably one of Sal's sticky notes. Speaking of said friend, Sal coughs inconspicuously from behind him. Larry turns his head a fraction and sees Sal looking back at him. He can't _exactly_ tell what Sal is feeling because of the mask, but he can practically feel his annoyed vibes from where he's sitting across the room.

Sal looks pointedly at the paper ball in front of him and then back up at Larry.

Larry looks down as well, and-- Oh! It's a note from Sal. He didn't realize before. He throws an apologetic look over his shoulder at Sal who's already scribbling something down on another blue post-it note. 

He looked down at the note from his friend. It reads:

_Dude, did u shower this morning. I can smell ur stank from all the way back here._

Larry snorts quietly, using a hand to muffle the sound. Before he could write down his reply, another blue paper ball hits him in the back of the neck and falls to the ground. Larry whips his body around to shoot Sal a friendly glare, but Sal is looking away innocently. Ha, ha...  
Larry scoops up the ball in his hand, uncrumpling it and reading Sal's neat handwriting.

_U need to stop getting stoned before coming to school._  
_ur being real obvious rn_  
_Love u tho_

And underneath the message was a horribly drawn heart with an arrow sticking through it. Larry blinks his bloodshot eyes and smiles as he rereads it.

And later...

"Do you have any rubber snakes?" 

They're in Larry's treehouse now, passing around a soda can with a hole in it. Neither of them were proud, but...

"Sally Face..." Larry sighed, "what the fuck do you need with rubber snakes?" 

Sal coughs, smoke billowing out the side of his mask and through his eye-holes as he passes the can back to Larry. Larry takes it and takes a moment to appreciate the legit awesomeness that happened in front of him.

"Dude... that was cool as fuck." 

"Thanks." 

Larry gives him a surfer gesture, then, "So, yeah, rubber snakes, why?"

"I read somewhere that it'll stop birds from shitting on your car." 

Larry sits up straighter. "No shit?" 

Sal nods, hiccupping. "Yes shit." 

Larry's feeling sufficiently light headed. Like his brain was being stroked with a feather. So it's no wonder that when he stands up suddenly, he stumbles around a little bit and knocks over a box with stuffed animals in them. 

"You good?" Sal asks, unclasping the lower strap of his mask and lifting it up a little to breathe better. Larry stops stumbling, straightens himself, and looks at his friend. Eyes catching the barest trace of marred and gnarled skin, starting right above his chin. He can see the good half of his lower lip, and where it abruptly stops. He's got a freckle in the corner of his mouth. 

"Yeah, I'm fine," Larry says, before Sal has time to question why he's taking so long to answer. "I just got excited, uh... It's not every day that you find a solution to birds shitting on your car." 

"You're bitter." 

"What gave it away?" Larry huffs out a laugh, turning around and starting his search for tht old rubber snake that his dad gave him. It was about three feet long and would look totally fucking rad on the hood of his car. 

He gives Sal a nod, face growing serious. Sal nods back, and the two of them scramble for the exit of the treehouse. Larry got down first, jumping the remaining three feet and landing on the ground with a thud. Quickly rolling onto his feet and bolting toward his car with a rubber Boa Constrictor in his hand, Larry could hear Sal yelling behind him.

"Dude, chill out! It's not a race."

"You're only saying that because you're a loser!" Larry yells over his shoulder.

He hears Sal huff out a laugh behind him, and soon enough the stomping of running feet start to get closer and closer before the blue-haired boy runs past him, like lightning, and darts toward his car. Sal's hand touches the hood _seconds_ before he does. 

"No fair, man. I'm high," Larry complains, panting for breath.

"I am, too," Sal replies, chest heaving.

Larry just laughs and throws the rubber snake on the top of his hood. He then looks up at the trees and raises his middle fingers to all the invisible enemies that would see him destroyed. 

"Fuck you, birds!" He screams into the air. 

"Yeah!" Sal screams as well, raising a fist to pump in the air. "Fuck you, birds! No one messes with my friend and gets away with it!" 

There's a moment of laughter, and the air around them feels light, and for the first time in a long time, Larry feels _happy_.

Three days later and no birds have shit on his car yet, and that's a win in his book. It's Saturday, the weekend, and Larry's planning on spending the evening with his friends at the speedway. Mud Bogging and dragsters and monster trucks. It's the _manliest_ form of entertainment, and Larry's testosterone is fucking raging, dude. He feels like he's about the bounce off the walls. He can feel the hum of the engines singing in his blood, and he realizes that he can scream as loud as he wants and the loud crack of the dragsters will drown out all of the noise. And as he eats deep-fried Oreos next to his best friend, he thinks: Yeah, the speedway isn't so bad. 

The last truck is getting ready to race, and Larry realizes that Sal is tapping on his shoulder, and he can hear his voice, though it's muffled by the mask and the noises going on around them.

"What?" Larry yells, leaning over and tilting his head so that Sal can yell directly into his ear. 

"I asked what we're doing after this!" 

Larry shrugs, and looking as the last truck rips up the track, flinging dirt in every direction. "I don't know, man. Whaddya wanna do?" 

"I'm hungry." 

"Food, then?" 

"Where?" 

The last engine of the night cut off, and there was nothing left but the chatter of the spectators getting their things and getting up. Larry takes this moment to take a deep breath, and brush his hair out of his face before he answers his friend.

"Wendy's, I guess?" 

"Dude," Sal replies. "You fucking hate Wendy's." 

Larry shrugs, getting up from his seat. He offers a hand out to Sal, who takes it and follows suit, standing in the bleachers. They start to walk away from the track and back down toward his car.

"Yeah," Larry agrees, "but you love Wendy's, so we should go." 

Sal stops, and Larry instantly wishes he could see his facial expression. It's a habit he doesn't know when he picked up, but it's annoying: always wondering what your best friend's face actually looks like. Always wondering what he's thinking or feeling. It's about to drive him up the wall. But he pushes the feelings and thoughts from the forefront of his mind because Sal usually lets him know how he's feeling. Whether that's with a head tilt or a laugh or a handful of words, he always lets Larry know exactly what's going on his head.

"You're the sweetest person I've ever met in my life," Sal coos, and Larry can feel his cheeks heat up as he swats playfully at his friend. 

"Shut up, dude. Do you wanna go to Wendy's or nah?" 

"Hell. Yes." 

Sal claps his hands together excitedly, hurriedly passing Larry to get to the car first, and Larry has to hide his fond smile behind his hand.


	3. Basic Copper Coin

The only awful thing about making homemade nachos is the mess. Burnt cheese is glued to three separate plates -- even though there's only two of them. Crumbs litter the floor of Larry's treehouse, and salsa is smeared over both of their mouths.

Larry and Sal sit in the treehouse now, laying down silently with their stomach's full and Larry's mind is racing with thoughts. He feels like his conscience is a streaker at a football game. Just when he thinks he has a good grasp on an idea, it flits away before he can take a peek.

Luckily, before he can be faced with the horror his thought are hiding, Sal speaks up. "What're you thinking about right now?" Larry looks over just in time to see Sal dig something out of his pocket. He gives it a once over before he flicks the copper coin up. Larry snatches it out of the air and looks over the penny now in his hand. His eyebrows furrow as he looks at Sal.

Sal just shrugs. "Penny for your thoughts."

Larry grins widely, leaning back again and closing his eyes. He heaves out a sigh.

"I don't know, to be honest."

Sal snorts. "Boring."

"Hey!" Larry huffs, crossing his arms, but there's no real annoyance in his posture. Sal sees that and smiles, uncrossing his legs to stretch them. His foot hits a nasty nacho plate, making it scrape across the floor loudly. "Watch yourself, long limbs."

"Ex _cuse_ me?" Sal asks loudly, and Larry can only picture his face right now. Eyebrows are drawn up into the other boy's hairline, mouth open in an accusatory sneer. " _How_ on _Earth_ am _I_ the one with _long limbs, Mr. Tall Pants."_

Larry leans his head to the side, opening his eyes to stare directly into Sal's. "Is that the best you can come up with?"

"You're an _asshole..._ You know that, right?" Larry could see Sal's eyes twinkle, and he giggled after his sentence, so everything was all good.

Larry shrugs, smiling and digging out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one. "If I'm such an asshole, why do you keep hanging out with me?

Sal sighs, hanging his head. He looks back up and unclasps the back of his mask, and gently lifting it off his face slightly, just so that his mouth was uncovered. Larry takes a moment to really look at Sal, wondering if he'd ever let Larry take a full peek. His scars might be bad, sure, but nothing could Sal anything less than what he is in Larry's eyes. Sal is _strong;_ he's not bound to anything like a body or a face. He seems ethereal. And that's not something scars or an accident can just strip away. Nothing physical, at least, would make Sal any less kind or brave or...

Larry blinks, his train of thought going off into a tangent that keeps slipping from his grasp. He's not sure he wants to see what his mind would lead to if it kept going down that path. His gaze focuses on Sal, and he's holding out his hand. Larry's brows furrow as he looks between the hand and Sal's half-masked face. Shit, he's been staring for too long.

"What?" He asks, maybe just a bit too quickly.

"You gonna give me one or not?"

"You," Larry starts, chuckling. "You, the one and only Sally Face, want a _cigarette?"_

A scarlet color covers Sal's neck and what little he can see of his jaw. Larry smiles, unable to hide his amusement.

"I'm being for real, dude," Sal replies meekly, crossing his arms and looking away from Larry.

Larry sighs, "Sal." He scoots over so he's sitting directly beside his friend. "Listen to me, dude. The last time I gave you a cigarette you almost puked all over my bed. I don't think we need a repeat of that, alright?"

Sal purses his lips together, and Larry's sure he's rolling his eyes. "I just... I wasn't expecting _that!_ Dude-" Larry starts shaking his head, waving his hand to cut Sal off.

"Why do you want one?" Larry blows out smoke, and he can tell that the putrid smell makes Sal shrink a little bit further into himself. "Huh? Why do you want to start smoking cancer sticks?" Larry tries to keep his tone airy, lighter, but he can tell that his words are starting to make Sal think. He's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I just... I just wanna smoke one."

Larry then makes the noise equivalent of a human basketball buzzer going off, making Sal jump. "Wrong answer, Fisher!" Larry takes another drag off of his cigarette.

"Is it so wrong if I wanna be cool?"

Larry cackles, holding his stomach as Sal looks at him in annoyance, obviously getting fed up with Larry's bullshit. "You think _this--"_ He brandishes the cigarette. "--is _cool?_ Are you fucking looney or what, man?" He mashes the cherry out in an old ceramic bowl his mother made years ago at a pottery class.

"Well...then... Why do _you_ smoke them all the time?"

Larry chuckles again, this time more softly. "I... Just a fucked up-- It's just..." He takes a deep breath and drops his voice. "It was the only thing I could get my hands on at the time."

There's a shift in the atmosphere, and Sal clears his throat, reaching a hand back up to pull his mask back down to cover his face. "Well," he says after a moment. "I changed my mind anyway. I don't actually want one."

A faint smile graces Larry's face, and he can see Sal relax a little. Larry doesn't feel any better, however. The previous conversation has left a bitter taste in his mouth, and some part of him wishes he'd just given Sal the damn cigarette. Maybe then he won't die alone.

He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head a little. He'd like to have thought that the intrusive thoughts were on a bit of a pause since he'd met Sal, but the truth is: they've just gotten worse. Less frequent, maybe... But they're starting to gain new material. Worse material than they'd had before. They were getting harder to keep quiet.

He opens his eyes and sees Sal staring at him from behind his mask. He gives the other boy a smile. A sad, disingenuous smile, but maybe it'd be enough to fool Sal.

Just for a little bit.

Just enough for him to get his thoughts about him again.


	4. Bad Angsty Poop Face

Larry tried really hard not to let people know when we was sad. If he was having a rough day, he'd lock himself in his room until he was feeling better. And he wouldn't let anybody in. Not Sal, or Todd, or even his mother. His only friends were the walls and the only thing keeping him in his room was the lock on the door. Not that he had locked himself in; he could get out anytime. It was more of a metaphorical thing; like an angsty teenager thing.

Sometimes, on the bus ride home from school, before he ever got a chance to make a break for his room, he would catch Sally Face's eyes and the other boy would just know not to let Larry out of his sight.

It all started the same way: He would look down at his knees, where his iPod was sitting on lap, and follow the headphone chord all the way up until it split in two different direction. One went to his own ear, but he would never continue his gaze that way. He would always follow the wire up to the other ear it was stuffed into. Usually he would see blue hair tied up into pig tails and the Velcro straps of his best friends prosthetic mask. Usually. But not always.

Sometimes he would meet Sal's dual-colored eyes staring back at him. It was, somehow simultaneously, comforting and eerie. Familiar would be the only way to describe it.

And when they both got off the bus, Larry would try to speed ahead, to try to get to his room before Sal could follow him. He didn't actually want to be alone, and deep down he knew that Sal knew that. That's why he felt a jolt of glee when Sal caught up to him and linked his arm in with Larry's.

"I trust you're not too busy this afternoon," Sal said amiably, his pigtail swinging back and forth.

"Who said?" Larry grunted, not willing to give up the moody act just yet.

"Uhhh, you're never busy." Sal got to the door before him, opening it up and gesturing for Larry to walk through first.

"What if I happen to be busy tonight," Larry continued, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "What if I have homework?"

"Then we can work on homework together." Sal replied just a little too chipper for Larry's current state of mind. His lack of response must have said more than words ever could have because Sal then said, a bit more meekly, "Unless you don't want to."

Larry sighs as he steps into the elevator, Sal stepping in behind him. He pressed the button to the basement, noticing that Sal wasn't making a move to press his own floor's button. Guilt started to settle in his chest because of his reluctance to be happy. Sal didn't deserve his shitty attitude. He cleared his throat. "No, I-I want you to. Sorry, just—rough day."

Sal snorts, laughing. "Yeah, I can tell just by looking at your angsty poop face that it had to be pretty shit."

Larry can feel his face heat up, but he can't bite back the grin that steels it's way on his face. "My angsty face is way moodier than my poop face. And *both* of them are better than your brooding face."

The elevator dings, and the doors open. The two boys step out, making their way down the hall to Larry apartment. The way was so familiar that both of them didn't have to think about it. Their feet just instantly carried them to where they needed to be.

"When have you ever seen me brood?" Sal asked, still trying to keep the flood of giggles from trying to escape his mouth.

"I see it all the time." Larry answered matter-of-factly. "It's in your eyebrows."

"Shut the fuck up." Sal laughed.

They both entered Larry's bedroom. Larry threw his bookbag into the corner, not planning on touching it again until he had to go back to school tomorrow. He plopped down on his bed, covering his face with his arm. He groaned, feeling how stressful the day really was as he finally got the chance to lay down.

"That bad, huh?" Sal asked, still standing in the doorway. Larry looked up, blinking slowly and nodding. He patted the space beside him, an invitation for Sal to sit down. He does. "Hey, I get it," he continued. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No, not really." Larry mustered. He honestly didn't think he had the energy to talk about the shit show that happened today.

"Well, I might talk a lot of shit about your face." Sal's voice lowered, and his eyes met Larry's, comforting and eerie. He spoke softly. "But I really don't like seeing you sad. If there's anyway I can turn that frown upside down, just let me know."

Larry couldn't help the side smile that spread across his features. What did he ever do to deserve a friend as cool and awesome as Sal?

"Thank you, Sally Face. You're the truest bro." Larry was the luckiest person ever, and already he was feeling loads better.

He could see Sal blink, and then he turned his head. "Uh, yeah... thanks."

Still, Larry never claimed to be a very smart individual.


	5. blah blah blah

The acoustics in the treehouse weren't exactly better than the ones in his room. Larry would argue that the wooden walls and empty window panes made his guitar sound worse. Made the notes sound distant and wrong even though he made sure his instrument was tuned three times before actually playing his first chord. He supposed it was a metaphor for something or other.

It was still quite early in the morning. The sun has just risen, and there was a chilly bite in the air. Larry plucked out the notes of an old song as he remembered why he was out there in the first place.

Sal has come down to his apartment with an armful of DVDs asking if they could have a movie night. He knew that Larry was having a rough time. He didn't know why, but it was almost like it didn't matter. He'd built a fort using blankets over Larry's bed, and Larry's mom helped them move the DVD player into his room. It was all so nostalgic and grand that Larry was able to forget about all his problems for just a little while. Sal had brought popcorn and all of his favorite movies. From _Coraline_ to _Kill Bill_ to Pink Floyd's _The Wall._ They made sure to sneak out after his mom went to sleep to speak up a joint. No sense in watching these movies completely sober.

He'd fallen asleep maybe an hour after Sal has. At first, he hadn't realized the movie was over, and he watched the main-menu screen loop at least a dozen times before he turned over to inform Sal only to find him snoozing, his mask placed gently by his head.

And Larry, though he'd never admit it, stayed there, looking at Sal. It wasn't like he was staring. He simply got lost in thought looking at Sal's face, his scars, his eyelashes, the way his hair falls against his cheek. And he doesn't remember what he was thinking about. But he must have fallen asleep looking at Sal because he woke up with a strange feeling in his chest. A bizarre thing that he couldn't work out.

A glance told him it was nearly five-thirty in the morning and that Sal was still asleep beside him. He had the strangest urge to lay back down and repeat exactly what he did the night before: look at Sally Face until all of his thoughts ceased to matter. And he could get lost again.

No. What was wrong with him? He couldn't stay here. He had to grab a smoke or something. He needed to be alone. Yeah. Alone. He grabbed the Camels and then his guitar, and he headed for his treehouse.

Now, he watches the sunrise, and he knows Sal will be loosing for him soon. And Larry hates to admit it, but he's out of cigarettes and no close to understanding what this feeling is in his chest. 

Sal approaches the treehouse a couple of hours later, still in his pajamas and a blanket wrapped around hind he climbs up the ladder slowly as Larry continues to pluck out random chords from his guitar. He stops when Sal's head pokes up from the floor. He's got his mask back on, and Larry's heart is hammering in his chest.

"That was a nice song," Sal comments before scurrying the rest of the way into the treehouse. "Did you just come up with that?"

Larry shrugs half-heartedly as he looks down at his calloused fingers. "Just fucking around, I guess." He sniffles. "Trying to interpret my thoughts through music."

"Oh," Sal replies simply. "It sounded so sad." He didn't say it as accusingly as it sounded. More defeated than anything.

"That's not your fault, Sal," Larry tried to reconcile, but he didn't need to see Sal's face to know that he was hurt. And in such few words, Larry had upset him. Even though Sal had tried so hard to make Larry feel better, he'd just admitted to still being... not happy. Not right. Guilt was a feeling he was more familiar with. As well as a feeling that he couldn't bear. "Sally, it's not like that at all. I'm just not feeling like myself lately. I'm sure I'll get over it."

Sal doesn't say anything. He just crawls over to Larry's side, wraps his arms around his torso. He rests his head in the crook of his neck and squeezes him.

In a voice so small, Larry can almost convince himself he imagined it, Sal whispers, "You know I'd do anything for you."


	6. Beginner Guitarists & See-Through Picks

Sometimes Larry has good days, and that's all thanks to his blue-haired friend. He'd be lying if he said that without Sal, he didn't know where he'd be. He doesn't think it's reached the level of codependency yet, but there is... something. A flutter in his chest when Sal looks at him, and awareness of the other boy's body, the way he moves, the way his chest rises and falls when he breathes, the way his hair looks under the black lights in his room. Larry's heart pangs with a longing to see what it would feel like between his fingers.

And he's been plagued with these thoughts and feeling for a week now and he's not quite sure what to do about it. These are totally not bro feelings. But the mental gymnastics of trying to figure out _that_ situation seems too stressful and complicated for a currently stoned Larry to death with. Instead of worrying about that, he'd much rather just continue to sit here and watch Sal pluck at the strings of Larry's guitar.

Sal's not the worst Larry has heard, but he's not what he would consider good either. Sal's fingers are hesitant and soft when he plays. Like he's unsure of the tone he wants. The notes come out sounding meek. But Larry knew that that's just a beginner quirk. Once Sal finds his confidence in the music, he'll be playing as well as the rest of them.

At first, Larry doesn't realize that he's staring at Sal's fingers moving across the strings until they stop, the music halting jarringly and leaving them in complete silence. Larry's gaze travels upwards until he meets Sal's mismatched eyes staring back at him.

"Why'd you stop?" Larry asks, rejecting the urge to become embarrassed that he'd been caught.

"Why are you staring?" Sal fires back, quick as a whip even though he smoked just as much as Larry.

"I guess I just got lost in thought," Larry replies honestly with a grin. "Something wrong with that, Sal?"

Larry can see the other boy's eyes crinkle behind the mad. He's smiling. Genuinely and widely and Larry can almost picture it. He wishes he could actually see it. "You don't think enough to get lost in thought, Larry." Sal teases him, and then he picks up where he left off, fingers strumming the guitar. And maybe Larry was imagining things, but the notes sounded just a little louder than they did before.

• • •

"What if one of us gets cloned and we get confused on which one is the real one, ya know?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"We should have a secret phrase. A phrase that only the other person would know.

"Like a password?"

"I was thinking more like a statement than a response. Or like a question and an answer."

"Like, 'if one thinks they are a duck, then they must be... a duck.'"

"Uh... yeah, but like something we'd _actually say_ to each other. The whole point is to remain inconspicuous."

"Yah, I still don't get why we're doing this."

"So I'll know which one is the clone and I won't accidentally shoot you instead."

"Oh, alright. I get it, now. Always good to be prepared, I guess."

"Oh! What about, 'Where are the see-through guitar picks?'"

"And then I'll say, 'Never where you'd expect them to be.'"

• • •

Sal was pacing around Larry's room, probably thinking about the political decisions that were affected by Jeffrey Epstein's "suicide" again. He'd tried to explain the hidden conspiracies and the timeline of bribery to Larry, but he could never keep up. The whole thing seemed very complex and convoluted, and Larry just assumed that if he wanted to spare himself the headache, then he better keep out of it.

"You're creating a draft," Larry said, his eyes glued to the boy who continued to walk back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. "Serious, dude, chill. You're making me nervous."

Sal sighed in what Larry could only identify as defeat as he flopped down on the foot of the bed by Larry's feet. He's silent and Larry saw the gears in his head still turning and working overtime. Larry needed to think of something to draw him out of his head and back into real life.

Larry gave Sal's thigh a little kick, making the other boy turn to look at him. The emotionless, smooth surface of the mask stared back at him, never giving anything away: the good or the bad. It was unsettling as it was familiar.

"Do you want something?" Sal asked, seemingly annoyed, but Larry could hear the smile hidden underneath his words.

"I'm bored," Larry replied, whiny, hoping to hear Sal laugh. Even if it's just a small one. "Pay attention to me."

Sal chuckled before moving his body so he's further up on the bed, back resting against the footboard, legs stretched out beside Larry's.

"You're very high maintenance," Sal teased.

"Luckily, I found someone willing to put in the effort."

"And I always will."

**Author's Note:**

> I deleted this bc im insecure but now I'm too tired to be insecure lol


End file.
